Love and War
by Gameboy Rocker
Summary: Moriarty is preparing to unleash his diabolic plans on London, and Sherlock Holmes is the only one with a chance of stopping him. But as horrific events occur, that chance gets slimmer. M for violence, drug use, sexual content; eventual H/W. Chapter 6 up!
1. Chapter 1

**So, I know my summary was terrible, but this story is going to be a great, I promise! Lol. No slash yet, but I'm 90% sure that it's going to happen. But not for a while. I like slow-building relationships :) This chapter is pretty mild, but I think the rating may go up eventually. I have some pretty gruesome ideas going around in my head, haha. Hope you enjoy!**

_Despite Dr. Watson's claim that he will continue to be not only my partner in crime-figuratively speaking-, biographer, and, perhaps most importantly, friend, I find myself having doubts. It is not a matter of my trust in him-the fact is, I would trust him with my very life. No, these doubts of mine stem from account upon account of testimony from various men, of all races, ages, and social standings. I interviewed them myself, to be sure their words weren't manipulated by a biased third-party. All of the men said that, once wed, their lives consisted of nothing more than working to keep their family, and working even harder to keep their wife. Did any of them admit to regrets?_

_None._

_I interviewed thirty-five men, a fair-sized sample for a personal inquiry such as this. Based upon their answers, I believe it safe to assume that Watson will, also, be condemned to a life of selfless giving, constant labor, and saving his own wants and desires for last, in all cases. This will prove to be unfortunate for me, since I am, no doubt_

Sherlock Holmes set aside his pen when he heard footsteps approaching his door, coming in light footfalls on the steps. Mrs. Hudson, no doubt. He glanced at his pocket watch-eight-thirty. Breakfast time.

He quickly closed the journal in which he had been writing and set it in the middle of a pile of other journals already stacked on the corner of his desk. A soft knock came on his front door, and he called, "Come in, Mrs. Hudson."

The door creaked open, and Holmes heard Mrs. Hudson shuffle inside the room. "Your breakfast, Mr. Holmes," she said cheerfully. Holmes could tell without looking at her that she was smiling.

"Thank you, _Nanny_."

She set the tray down on his table, the silverware and teakettle clinking as they settled. "I do hope you enjoy this, Mr. Holmes. It's a new recipe, given to me by my late Aunt Margaret. Orange-walnut scones with sweet cream frosting. When I was a girl, I could never understand how Auntie-"

Holmes rolled his eyes. As fond of Mrs. Hudson as he was-though he would never admit it, of course-her voice was beginning to grate against his nerves. Of all days for her to recount her childhood to him, it had to be today.

"-but then my mother told me that the secret was actually _goat's_ milk!" Mrs. Hudson laughed. "I never would've thought of that."

"Nor I," Holmes said, even though he really had no idea what it was that he was agreeing to. He stood up and walked over to the table, then put his pale hand on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder, trying to guide her towards the door. "Thank you for breakfast."

"You will tell me if you liked them, won't you?"

Holmes nodded, a false smile flashing upon his lips for a split-second. "You have my word."

Mrs. Hudson, for the first time this morning, turned and looked directly at Holmes. Her brow wrinkled in concern and frustration. "You're still not sleeping."

Holmes rolled his eyes again, and didn't bother to hide it this time. "Nanny-"

"I told you to ask Dr. Watson to give you something for it! You didn't, did you?"

Holmes frowned. "I'm fine," he said calmly. He pressed gently on his landlady's shoulder. "Thank you again, Mrs. Hudson."

He finally got her out of the room, after many assurances and even a few more nudges on her shoulder. As soon as she was out, he locked the door. He walked into the washroom and looked at himself in the full-length mirror. "I must look a horrid mess if _Nanny_ can make such an accurate observation," he muttered under his breath.

Sure enough, he did look horrible. His hair was a dirty mess, twisted and flipped every which way. A week's worth of stubble had grown onto his grimy face, circling around his cracked lips. His eyes were dull and slightly bloodshot. Even under his fingernails, dirt and soot had collected, making the tips appear black. His pants were baggy on him, and his shirt looked to be two sizes too big.

However, this poor physical appearance was no competition for how messed-up and ragged he felt inside. He couldn't ask Watson for something to help him sleep, because Watson wasn't there. He hadn't been there for almost a week. Coincidentally enough, that was when Holmes had let his hygiene fall by the wayside.

He groaned and left the bathroom, taking his seat at the table. He picked up the smallest cone and raised it hesitantly to his mouth. His stomach churned, but whether it was from hunger or disgust, he didn't know. He nibbled on the corner. Dry, the result of over-kneading. Low-quality butter. Extra-oily nuts. Holmes dropped the scone, but then the sweet cream icing caught his eye. He again brought it to his lips and licked the icing off. Fresh cream. Extra-fine sugar. Could be worse.

He licked the icing off of two more scones, smirking to himself as he thought, 'This is a benefit to Watson not being here-he would never approve of you licking icing like a child!'. He took the three bare scones and walked over to his open bedroom window and threw them out into the side alley. No reason to hurt Mrs. Hudson's feelings.

Holmes returned to the table and poured himself a cup of coffee, adding a dash of cream and half a spoonful of sugar. Even though it was steaming hot, he brought it to his lips and tilted it into his mouth. Instantly, his mouth was in scorching pain, especially his tongue. He could feel it burning and blistering. But he didn't stop drinking. He couldn't. This was the most stimulating experience he'd had since Watson left. There were no worthy cases, no skilled musicians in town, no challenging opponents in the boxing ring…nothing. Not even good-tasting scones. Just this boiling hot coffee.

Moriarty. Now _there_ was a worthy case. Who was he, really? What did he want with Holmes? Why was he involved with Blackwood and Coward? Just to get the device? What was it that he even took_, _and _why_?

He poured himself another cup of coffee, stirring this one absent-mindedly while he thought. Adler hadn't seemed too concerned about him facing off against Blackwood, but against Moriarty…she had told him that he was 'just as brilliant, and infinitely more devious' than he.

Doubtful. But, not impossible. If these past weeks had taught him anything, it was that _nothing_ was impossible. He had thought Watson would never leave him, yet, here he was, alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you to everyone for reading, and those of you that reviewed, thank you! This chapter is cool, it kind of starts picking up on the action. But not too much lol, I want to get the characters settled before much happens. Don't you hate when you have these great ideas, but first you have to get through all the 'boring' stuff to get to them? I hope I'm staying in character, I'm pretty new to the Sherlock Holmes world, so I'm just going by how I think the characters would act. I tried to use this chapter to really get into Holmes's mind, about how miserable he's feeling with Watson being gone. **

It started to rain. What time was it? Nine? Ten? Holmes couldn't tell. The sun was being obscured by the thick black clouds that now mottled the sky. Mrs. Hudson had come and gone, taking the tray and remaining scones with her. "I'm so relieved to see that you've finally eaten something, Mr. Holmes," she had told him. "If I may, sir, it's a shame to see you lock yourself in your room and starve yourself. That's not the way a man should live."

Ah, but since when had he done what _should_ be done? Hardly ever. He started his own consulting detective business, that was a risk. He'd moved into Baker Street with a man he'd just met, but knew was an avid gambler, that was a risk. He'd allowed Watson to accompany him on some of his earlier cases, that was a risk. He'd made Watson-

Watson, Watson, Watson.

Holmes sighed. "Damn you," he said aloud. "I never minded being alone before. I enjoyed it, actually. Now look at me. Pining for you like an adolescent schoolgirl."

Holmes sat down at his desk, staring out the window absent-mindedly as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his smooth black pipe and his matchbook. He lit the pipe and gnawed on the end as he let the warm smoke fill his lungs.

_Moriarty._ Where was he now? What was he doing? Something that had to do with the stolen device, no doubt. But _what_?

Holmes replayed in his head the scene of him and Irene dismantling Blackwood's machine, looking it over, inspecting it. He couldn't come to any conclusions. His mind was racing, yet he wasn't _thinking_. He took another long draw on his pipe. _Think, man. Think!_

The rain was coming down harder now, and the black clouds were covering the whole sky and sun from view. Lightning flashed brightly, lighting up Baker Street below. Holmes could see people running with their overcoats covering their shoulders and heads. A loud clap of thunder resounded, then died away into a low, but constant, grumbling, occasionally rising again to a loud roar. A thick layer of gray fog was seeping onto the street. Fog. Rain. Lightning. Thunder.

What a lovely day.

Holmes stared out the window and smoked his pipe for-well, he wasn't sure how long he did it. Several hours at least, for the next thing he knew Mrs. Hudson was knocking on his door and announcing that his lunch was ready.

He didn't acknowledge her, either when she arrived or when she left. He moved only enough to reach into his desk drawer and retrieve his tobacco and refill his pipe, and then he returned his gaze to the street below.

It had stopped raining the next time Mrs. Hudson knocked on his door. This time, it wasn't for his next meal. "I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Holmes. Inspector Lestrade is here to see you."

He heard her shuffle out of the room, and then Lestrade entered and closed the door behind him.

"Inspector." Holmes said gruffly. "It is my customary practice to _only_ see inquirers when they have made an appointment."

"Well, I do hope you'll forgive me for upsetting your routine."

"Have you brought something of interest? I've already told you, I don't know what happened to your officer. I need more information, and, as of yet, there is none to be found."

"I'm not here about him," Lestrade admitted. "A foreign woman came to headquarters yesterday afternoon. She-"

"Foreign, German? Russian? French? American? Be more descriptive, man!"

"Oriental. I'm not sure of the exact _country_, but she is from the Far East. She claims-"

"Don't you think her country of origin to be an important piece of information to gather?"

"Holmes, we couldn't hardly understand a word she said. She couldn't understand anything _we _said. She-"

"Did you at least get the woman's name?" Holmes asked, his hand rubbing his brow as a result of what he considered to be incompetence on Lestrade's part.

"Her name is Takahiko Ochi."

"And what is Ms. Ochi's complaint?"

Lestrade sighed, his eyes closed, and Holmes could tell that he was annoying him. "If you will allow me to finish, sir, without interrupting, I will tell you everything I know. She visited us at three o'clock yesterday. She was very anxious, as was evident in the fact that she looked around every few seconds. She first tried to speak to Clarke, but he sent her over to me. When I realized she spoke naught a word of English, I decided to learn her name and then use pictures to get as much information as I could. I motioned to myself and told her my name, and after a few attempts, she caught on and did the same.

"I had a hard time trying to ascertain the reason for her visit. I got some books and pointed to a picture of a gun, a knife, a noose, none of which seemed to hold any meaning to her. So, I think it safe to assume that no one has committed suicide, or been murdered by knife or gun. For the time being, at least. I showed her some more pictures, of jewelry, bills, coins, even children, but nothing stood out to her. One picture was of a window with the glass shattered through, from an intruder, but she said nothing. I was full out of ideas, so I told Clark to escort her out."

"You did nothing?"

"I sent for the nearest interpreter, it'll take him three days to arrive. And I got her address; she had a letter, thankfully, in her purse. But I'm not finished yet. Before she left, she grabbed a piece of paper and drew a rough sketch and-" Lestrade reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded paper and handed it to Holmes-"and she wrote that. I have no idea what it says, of course, but at least we know what brought her into the station."

Holmes took the paper and unfolded it carefully. Drawn on it was a man's face, wearing a top hat and spectacles. He appeared to have short hair and a thin beard and mustache. Written above the drawing was 彼は私を殺そうとしています.

"This is hardly helpful at all," Holmes said grimly, waving it in the air. "This could be anything. Always a top hat? What color hair and beard? Is he a tall man, or short? Are there wrinkles on his face that she forgot to draw? Does he _always_ wear spectacles, or just the last time she saw him? Where does she see him at? Does she know who he is?"

"I know it's not much, but at least it's _something._"

"Please don't tell me you plan to go around arresting every top-hat-wearing, bearded, spectacle-wielding men?"

Lestrade snorted. "Damn you, Holmes, you've foiled my evil plan." He sniffed the air suddenly. "Say, is that curried hare I smell?"

"No idea."

Lestrade smiled a little, and he turned and approached Holme's table, lifting the lid on the lunch Mrs. Hudson had brought earlier. "It is! This is my favorite dish. But, my wife-she…she's not too skilled at preparing it."

Holmes smiled with mock kindness. "Then, my dear Inspector, I insist you join me." He sat down at the table and motioned for Lestrade to sit across from him, in Watson's old spot.

_Watson_.


	3. Chapter 3

**So now the action starts :) Watson still isn't IN this chapter, but don't worry. I'm thinking he'll show up in the next one. I still own nothing of the Sherlock Holmes franchise, except the idea for this story. Enjoy!**

_In town tonight. Dinner at the Royale, seven o'clock? No Mary._

_-Watson_

Holmes frowned as he read the telegraph again. Mrs. Hudson had brought it with his breakfast. She had said, "Shall I respond for you, Mr. Holmes?"

He had looked up at her and said, snidely, "Of course not. That is, unless you've suddenly acquired the ability to read my thoughts, in which case you would know my answer and my exact words of response. Then you may answer him."

She ignored his bitter sarcasm. "Well surely you're going!"

Holmes shook his head and returned his focus to his cup of coffee. "I have a case," was all he said.

Mrs. Hudson, he was sure, intended to say something to him, probably to tell him how difficult and stupid he was being, but she couldn't find the right words. She promptly turned around and huffed out of the room.

_He doesn't like the Royale_, Holmes noted. _He only suggested it to get me to come. He _knows_ I'm angry. _Holmes sighed and reached up to squeeze his furrowed brow. _What are you angry about, old boy? He's getting married. It's not a sin. It's not something he's doing to hurt you. He's a handsome, well-to-do man. You should've _expected_ this._

Holmes took a long drink of his lukewarm coffee and frowned. He wasn't lying. He really did have a case. He had been up all night thinking about it, and other things. It had dawned on him overnight-and he felt a fool for not thinking of it sooner-that the man Ms. Ochi drew may have been someone that she knew and was trying to protect. Maybe she herself is in no danger at all.

Holmes walked over to his desk and punched out a brief and rather cold response to Watson.

_Have a case-you would have liked it._

He returned to the table, but didn't sit down. He lifted the coffee pot to his lips and let the liquid pour into his mouth and down his throat. Bitter though it was, he needed the energy. It was the morning of his fourth day with no sleep, and, as much as he hated to admit it, he was beginning to feel the effects. His mind, alert as ever, ticked continuously from thought to thought, theory to theory, but his body was starting to have a hard time keeping up.

Hurrying to the door, he swung it opened and hollered, "Nanny, a cab, please!", then he went into his room. He slowly pulled off his robe and began to paw through his closet for something that at least _looked _clean. Settling on a wrinkled white shirt and gray trousers, he pulled them on hurriedly, then attached his braches and pulled on black socks and his black leather boots.

Before leaving the room, he glanced in his mirror. He looked even worse than yesterday. The shirt and pants were noticeably too large for him, his hair was grimy and disheveled, and the stubble on his chin and cheeks made it look like he was actually trying to grow some sort of chaotic beard. His eyes, usually alert and observant, were now insipid and red.

"Just one more day, man," he said aloud. "Give me one more day."

The ride to Takahiko Oshi's house took almost an hour, which Holmes was grateful for. It had given him time to think about her case, as much as it was. Part of him was annoyed that Lestrade had asked for his help-he had bigger things on his mind. The first that came to mind was Watson, but Holmes scolded himself. _Moriarty. _He_ is your first priority! God only knows what he's capable of…_

Today, Watson had been gone a week. And he had wanted to get together with Holmes. _Once a week_, Holmes thought. _Could I live with that? _

_No_.

Holmes reached up and rubbed at his dry, itching eyes. He rubbed his cold hands together under the thin carriage blanket before intertwining his fingers and craning his head to glance out the window. The sun was shining down brightly, a huge contrast compared to the rain and clouds from yesterday. Brown leaves were being lifted off tree branches by the brisk wind, and they slowly swirled downwards before joining their other fallen comrades on the frozen ground.

The hansom turned left into onto a road of small, almost cottage-like homes, with less than thirty feet between them. It went about half-way down the street and slowed to a stop.

"Wait for me, please," Holmes said as he crawled out of the carriage. "I shan't be long."

Holmes approached the house slowly, taking in every detail as he walked. A sloppy path made of large, flat rocks led from the street to the door. The house was painted white, but the paint was dirty and chipping; it looked as if it hadn't been redone for at least a decade. The small windows on the house were covered in dust, but whether it was on the inside or the outside, Holmes couldn't tell. The plants growing around the house were out of control; they were tall enough to block the bottom of the window, and they were so unruly that it was impossible to tell where one stopped and the other began. Weeds, shrubs, bushes, Holmes wasn't able to make out exactly what they were.

Other than the crunching sound his boots made of the path of rocks, the place was completely silent. There were no birds chirping, no horses whinnying, dogs barking, children crying, wheels rolling over the streets-he couldn't even hear the wind blowing anymore.

He had reached the door. Like the rest of the house, it was nothing impressive-the wood looked like it was rotting, and the hinges were cheap and rusted. Holmes stretched out a gloved hand and knocked on it gently, but firmly. He waited a few seconds, and knocked again, slightly louder this time. Still no answer.

Holmes shrugged. He hadn't intended to talk to Ms. Ochi, of course, it was just the usual pleasantries of letting someone know you're going to inspect their property before you do so. Not that she would understand him, anyway. Perhaps he should've brought Lestrade-not for any _real_ use, but so the woman had a familiar face to assure her.

He left the doorframe and circled around the house. No fences to keep animals in or out, no gardens, no lawn chairs for company, nothing. Apparently, Ms. Ochi either hadn't been at this residence long enough, or she didn't plan to stay long enough, to settle in. Or both. The back of the house was as much of a mess as the front, completely overgrown and no obvious effort taken in controlling it.

Pushing some brush aside, he stood on the tips of his toes to look through one of the back windows. It was dark inside; many of the windows had the curtains drawn, and no lamps or candles had been left lit. He could see a table, bare except for one book laying on top of it, open, and a pen sitting next to it.

A loud, shrill scream knocked Holmes out of his thoughts, and he hurriedly spun around to see the source of the noise. Only a few feet behind him stood a slim, young woman with black hair, wearing a simple blue dress and a look of horror on her face. She had pale skin, full red lips, and dark, almond-shaped eyes.

"Takahiko Ochi?" Holmes said softly. He held his hands up, showing her that he meant no harm towards her. With one hand, he touched his chest lightly. "Sherlock Holmes."

She shook her head and yelled something else at him, then took a few steps backwards.

"It's all right," Holmes said. He stepped towards her, closing the distance between them again. "I'm not going to hurt you." He touched his chest again. "My name is Sherlock Holmes."

Takahiko shook her head furiously. She spoke to him again, in a harsh, bitter tone. Even though Holmes had no idea what she was saying, it was clear that she was angry about _something._ The detective was startled to see that tears had started to fall from the woman's eyes.

"Don't cry," he whispered gently. "I'm here to help you. Inspector Lestrade sent me." He took another step towards her, but froze when she began fumbling around the sides of her dress. Quicker than a flash of lightning, she had pulled a small handgun out and was pointing it at him.

She spat something at him again, probably a threat, Holmes thought. Immediately he took a step back, returning to his original position. He lifted his hands higher in the air.

"I'll leave," he told her calmly. "I'm sorry for scaring you."

Before he had a chance to turn around to return to the front of the house, he heard a loud _crack!_ and felt the familiar, searing pain of a gunshot wound in his right arm. Had it grazed him? Cut through the flesh? He tried to examine it with his other hand, to determine the severity, but the sound of another shot made him realize the most logical course of action was to leave now and worry about the wound later.

His arm was now gushing blood from the area around his elbow, where the bullet had come into contact. With his left hand he pushed his jacket to it firmly and sprinted to his cab. There was only one more stop to make, and he wasn't going to let something as minor as a bullet wound keep him from it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Yay, chapter four! Lots of cool stuff in this chapter-Mycroft is in it, Holmes buys his first round of cocaine, and we get to see Watson doing the pining instead of Holmes! And yeah, I'm sure Mycroft wasn't the one who suggest that Holmes take up cocaine, but hey, that's why this is fanFICTION :) Now, I hate to do this, but could someone tell me if you're reading this, and enjoying this? I see that it's getting a decent amount of hits, but very few people are REVIEWING (thank you to those of you that have), so I'm afraid that people read it and hate it lol. I don't mean to be pushy, but I just want to make sure everyone enjoys it...if it sucks, I at least want to know why! So, thanks, and enjoy this exciting chapter!**

Mycroft Holmes groaned when he heard his bedroom door creak open and his maid, Maria, say timidly, "Sir? Sir?"

He pried his eyes open and rolled them before turning over to lay on his back. "What is it, Maria?" He didn't even bother to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Your brother is here. He's been injured, Sir."

Immediately he was awake. He swung his legs over the side of his bed and pushed himself up. "Sherlock? What's happened to him?"

"His arm, Sir. That's all I know."

"All right. Tell him I'll be right down."

Mycroft stood and strode over to his closet, quickly pulling out a clean white shirt and a pair of dark brown trousers. He threw his dressing gown onto his bed and got dressed, finishing up with his brown boots, then practically ran to the staircase.

As he thundered down, he heard Maria's voice. "-says he'll be right down."

"I'm here, I'm here," he said as he reached the bottom of the steps. He turned around the corner and saw Sherlock standing by the door, his right arm hanging limply at his side, and his left hand pressing his jacket-which had been crumpled into a loose ball-against the elbow.

Sherlock smiled innocently at him. "Seventy seconds," he said through his grin. "My dear brother, I believe that's a new record."

Mycroft ignored him. He turned and motioned for Sherlock to follow him into the sitting room. "Come on, let me look at your arm. Maria, bring my some clean bandages and my iodoform, please."

Sherlock scoffed, but he followed his brother anyway. "It's of no importance; the bullet only grazed me. I inspected it on my way over here."

Mycroft pointed to his large, overstuffed chair. "Sit."

Sherlock did, and Mycroft took his bundled up jacket and set it on the end table, then helped Sherlock remove his right arm from its sleeve. He sat down in the chair across from him and frowned as he looked his brother over. Messy, grimy hair, bloodshot eyes with dark bags under them, cracked lips, pale skin, hollow cheeks. He sighed.

"You're not sleeping."

Sherlock locked eyes with him. "And you, brother, are sleeping too much. It's nearly three o'clock."

Again, Mycroft ignored him. "Is there any particular-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. He looked away from his brother and became suddenly fascinated by the books on his brother's shelves. "No, no reason."

Maria had arrived with the wrappings and small vile of iodoform, and Mycroft took them and waved her off. He ripped off a section of the bandage and folded it over, then poured a generous amount of iodoform over it. He gently dabbed it over the gash on Sherlock's arm, where the bullet had obviously cut through. The wound wasn't that deep, and the bleeding was already beginning to slow.

Sherlock flinched as Mycroft applied the antiseptic. "If you think _this_ is painful, just think of how it would have felt if it'd gone through your arm."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I know. I _have_ been shot before, Mycroft."

Mycroft took the clean bandages and begin to wrap them around Sherlock's arm, tightly. "I know that. All I'm saying is-"

"All you're saying is that I was very fortunate. Thank you, _Mother_, I know."

As soon as Mycroft had made the final wrap around Sherlock's arm, the younger Holmes pulled his arm away. "That will be sufficient." He stood and reached around Mycroft for his jacket.

"Sherlock, why don't you join me for a late lunch?"

"Thank you, no. The thrill of being shot at has given me an energy that I've been lacking these past days. I think my time would be better spent helping my client."

Mycroft straightened up and crossed his arms. "If you're lacking energy and can't sleep, why don't you try a stimulant?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "Stimulant? You mean a drug?"

"I've heard cocaine works wonders. It keeps you alert and productive without causing addiction or loss of control."

"Yes, yes, I know what it does," Sherlock said, waving his hand. He sighed. "I never thought I would have to rely on external elements to do my job. But, these last few days _have_ been rather…" he paused and frowned, "_trying_."

Mycroft nodded. He wouldn't press Sherlock for any more details, because he knew he wouldn't get any. "I suggest you buy from Miller's. Some men at the club have told me that there it is the cheapest per ounce."

Sherlock nodded and gave Mycroft his infamous flash-smile. "Good day, brother."

Dr. John H. Watson absolutely despised winter. You had to leave early for wherever it was you were going, since the hansoms had to travel at nearly half-speed, you had to dress in so many layers that you looked twenty pounds heavier than you really were, and ninety-five percent of his patients came in with a runny nose and slight fever or a cough.

In the beginning months of his practice, he had enjoyed the simplicity of the diagnoses, enjoyed getting paid to tell people what should have been common knowledge, but now that he was a more experienced and wiser physician, he couldn't stand it.

_To mention nothing of the fact that I went from chasing down gun-wielding murderers to taking temperatures and wiping noses_, he thought to himself, almost bitterly. Not that he regretted his decision to get married-it was actually, he felt, the best decision he had ever made, except for one problem.

He missed Holmes.

He'd only been gone from Baker Street for a week, but he found that he already felt the need to see his closest friend, to talk to him, face to face, to watch his expression, to touch him. Watson could picture him-slimmer than ever, pale-faced, hollow, reddened eyes, wild hair, and living in a huge mess of papers, books, maps, and whatever else Holmes decided to misplace.

Watson looked out the window of his hansom to view the familiar shops and stands lining Baker Street. He thought of the thousands of times that he had walked up and down this street, in the earliest hours of the morning to the latest hours at night. He had to give Holmes that-there was never a dull moment with the man.

The thick clouds were covering the sky, making it look like it was late in the day, but when Watson checked his watch he saw that it was only half-past five. He had finished his errands much earlier than he had expected to, and decided to surprise Holmes at their old lodgings and _force_ him to come with him to the Royale, case or no case. This task, of course, was easier said than done, but he was up it. He firmly believed that he was the only one in London who could keep Holmes at bay. Even Holmes' own brother, Mycroft, thought it better to just let the man do whatever he pleased than try to convince him otherwise.

The cab rattled to a stop right in front of 221 B, and Watson eagerly swung open the door and hopped down from the carriage. He pulled his spare key out of his pocket and quickly unlocked the door and pushed himself inside the warm entryway. He had offered to give Holmes back the key, but Holmes had merely shook his head with a small, almost sad smile, and pressed Watson's fingers closed around it.

"Keep it," he had said softly. "You never know when you'll get the urge to visit. But, you _do _know, of course, that you are always welcome. Day or night."

Watson glanced around the corner for Mrs. Hudson, but saw no sign of her. A shame; he had been looking forward to seeing her. He pulled off his coat and slung it over his arm as he started up the steps. When he got to the living room door, he sighed once before knocking softly on the door. He waited a few seconds, but he heard no sounds come from the room. He knocked again, a little louder. "Holmes?" Still nothing.

Watson twisted the doorknob slowly and pushed the door open. "Holmes, it's me."

The first thing he noticed was how emotively empty the room looked. Of course, Holmes had left his mark-there were papers, books, mannequins-well, a little of everything-on the ground, settee, and table, but it still looked like it was missing something, and that something was Watson's belongings. _His_ books, _his_ journals, _his _models, were gone, packed away in boxes to be put up in his new home. He had left in such a hurry with Mary the last time he'd been here that he hadn't taken the time to look back and see how his absence would affect Holmes' environment.

After a few more seconds of gawking, he pulled himself away from the living room and walked over to Holmes' bedroom. The door was ajar, and Watson knocked on it before opening it. "Holmes?"

The detective wasn't on the bed, and it appeared that he hadn't been for some time. The bed was perfectly made, and the decorative pillows were arranged in exactly the way Watson had put them on his last night in the apartment. He and Holmes had shared the bed, as they often did when one or the other had something on his mind. Usually it was Watson-Holmes didn't like discussing his weaknesses, but when he did admit to Watson that something was wrong, they didn't talk about. Yet, for some reason, Holmes had always seemed to calm down when Watson was laying next to him.

Watson walked back into the living room and, after pushing some books onto the other cushion, sat down on the settee. He pulled his pipe from his pocket and lit it, then put it between his lips and inhaled deeply. His thoughts drifted, to Mary, to Holmes, to his new home, back to Mary, to his patients, to his family, to Gladstone, back to Holmes. He wasn't sure how long he had sat there, but when he glanced out the window, the sun was beginning to set. He looked at his watch and frowned when he saw that it was already a quarter to seven.

He stood up, rather disappointed that Holmes had never arrived, and emptied his pipe, then put it back into his pocket. He locked the door, testing it once before closing it on his way out. He descended the steps, much slower than he had ascended them, and pulled his coat on as he left the apartment.

As soon as he was outside, he pulled the coat tighter around his body-the wind had picked up, and it brought the cold of winter with it. Fortunately, there was a hansom parked only a few feet away, and he anxiously hailed it.

While it approached him, Watson let his gaze wonder across the street, where he saw a hansom with a black, white-maned horse as the steed. He smirked to himself. _How peculiar_, he thought. _Holmes would've liked that.__  
_

_* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *_

Sherlock Holmes was angry. Angry at himself for not bringing a scarf, angry at the weather for being so damn cold, angry that Watson was no longer with him to _remind_ him to bring a scarf, just, angry. He rubbed his hands together furiously as he turned the corner and stepped onto Baker Street. He could see a cab pulling away from in front of his apartment. He looked at the other side of the street, in case there was anything worthy of notice to see, and his eyes immediately settled on a black horse with a snow-white mane and tail. Despite his mood, Holmes chuckled. "How peculiar," he muttered. "Watson would have liked that."


	5. Chapter 5

**So, this is the first chapter to give the story an M rating...there's a little bit of sexual content, some drug use, and also, the slashiness is starting! Sort of lol. I really like this chapter, even though it's got an ultra cliff-hanger. I own nothing of the Sherlock Holmes universe, except the idea for this story. And if there are some technical errors, I apologize in advance. I've done as much research as I can about the Victorian era/Holmes canon/history, but I still don't feel like I've found all the information I needed, so there may be some mistakes or things I make happen that couldn't possibly happen. Sorry! I hope you enjoy it anyway lol! R&R, if you feel so inclined :) Thank you for reading! **

When Holmes entered his living room, he knew immediately that Watson had been there. He set his package of cocaine, syringes, and extra needles on his desk, threw his coat on the floor, and glanced around the room. Other than the strong smell of Watson's tobacco-spicy and exotic, yet, oddly familiar and comforting-he could see that his books and papers had been pushed to one end of the settee, and Watson, no doubt, had sat on the other.

_I barely missed him,_ Holmes realized, deducing from the still-strong smell of the tobacco that Watson had just recently left. _That's a good thing…isn't it? _Holmes furrowed his eyebrows and pinched the bridge of his nose at his own idiocy. Of _course_ it was a good thing. If he'd been just a few moments earlier, he would've had to explain to Watson why he'd rather sit at home, alone, than come to the Royale with him.

Holmes smirked as he imagined the ludicrousness of that conversation. "I'm sorry, old boy," he said aloud, imaging Watson standing in front of him, arms crossed, and an expression of pure annoyance on his mustached face. "See, the reason that I cannot come out with you tonight is because I miss you terribly. What's that you say? If I miss you I should come with you? Well, you see, I'm actually _quite_ angry with you at the moment. Why? No idea."

Holmes snorted. _Right. That would go perfectly. You know damn well why you're angry-because he left. Not only did he leave his home, his life of excitement, his thrill at the risk of danger, or even death, he left _you_._

Holmes stopped suddenly, and realized that he had been pacing back and forth across the small living area. _I can't take this anymore_, he thought, and, almost instinctively, lunged towards his desk. With trembling fingers-not from nervousness, but excitement, he told himself-he reached out and picked up the small rectangular case. The salesman had been kind enough to show him how to prepare the syringe, with the correct doses of saline and cocaine, this one being a seven-percent solution.

He rolled the sleeve of his left arm up to his elbow as he walked over to the settee and sat down on the cleared end. He set the case onto his lap and, with his right hand, traced delicate lines over dark vein in the inner crook of his elbow.

Taking in a slow and resolute breath, he opened the case and carefully pulled out the assembled syringe. He held it over his arm for just a split-second before pushing the needle up into the vein, until the whole thing was under his skin. With his thumb, he slowly pushed in on the back of the syringe until all the contents were pushed into his system.

Holmes slowly withdrew the needle and returned it to his case, closing it and setting it on the end table beside him. He had barely had time to return his hand to his lap when he felt an incredible sensation washing over him. Suddenly, everything made sense. Everything that he was and wasn't feeling, everything that he was and wasn't doing-just, everything.

He was in love with Watson.

_You are not_, his mind said to him, stubbornly. His heart retorted, _of course you are. It makes perfect sense. It explains why you touch him 'accidentally'. It explains why you keep your plans from him-not because you don't trust him, but because you don't want to worry or frighten him. It explains why you're so jealous of his fiancée. And, most of all, it explains why you haven't been able to think straight since he left you._

"Dear God," Holmes said aloud, his bloodshot eyes widening. "I'm in love with Watson."

**\break/**

Watson knew that he should quit while he was ahead. It wasn't too late to turn back. Or what it? He wasn't even sure now. He couldn't think straight; there was only one thing on his mind.

Mary.

He curled his fingers around the back of his fiancée's neck and pulled her face even closer towards his. Their lips had met several moments ago and were moving in perfect sync against the other's. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, and her delicate hands were running through his short brown hair. He could feel her breasts pressing against his chest and her tongue sliding against his own.

"John," Mary whispered, slowly pulling away, "wait, wait."

Watson cocked his head and looked at her as he reached up and brushes a loose bang away from her forehead. "What's the matter?"

Mary shook her head. "Nothing. There's nothing."

Her tone wasn't convincing, and Watson knew that she had pulled away at the perfect moment. If they had kept it up for but a few seconds more, they would have passed the point of no return. True, they were getting married in less than a week-five days, to be exact-but he knew that Mary wanted to wait.

He smiled at her kindly and leaned in and pecked her on the cheek. She smiled back at him. "Oh, John, how is Mr. Holmes? You certainly weren't at dinner long. I didn't expect you back here until ten, at the earliest."

"Holmes is…well…he's occupied. He wrote me saying that he had a case."

"Well, I'm surprised he didn't ask you along!" She asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement, "Do you know what it is? Murder? Theft? Blackmail?"

Watson chuckled and shook his head. "No, my dear, I'm afraid I don't. Knowing the intricacies of his cases, it could very well involve all three."

Mary reached out and took his right hand in both of hers and squeezed it. "Then I guess the only thing it doesn't involve is you."

He furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

"I know you'll miss him, John. And you'll miss the thrill of what he does. Are you all right with this?"

Watson scoffed. "It's not like I'll never see him again, Mary. If he ever needs help with a case, he knows that I would be more than happy to assist him. In any case, I've lived with him almost seven years. It's about time I get on with my life."

Mary laughed at this. Still smiling, she said, "He is very fond of you, darling. Even though I've met him such few times, it's easy to tell from the way he acts around you. Do you think _he _will be all right with your absence?"

"Mary, please, don't concern yourself over this. Holmes will be _fine_. Now, are you sure you want chicken instead of lamb at the reception?"

**\break/**

Holmes felt a surge of satisfaction as his bow swept across the final note of Vivaldi's _L'estate. _While he had always performed it well and mastered every technicality, he had never quite made it to his idea of _presto_. Until now.

He looked the clock on his bedroom wall, and raised his eyebrows in surprise when he realized that it was already half-past midnight. He'd been playing his violin for over three hours. Holmes would've guessed that it had been hardly an hour, an hour and a half, at most.

Holmes was smiling, and he found, to his surprise that he was unable to stop. Even while he was solving his most difficult cases, he never felt that his mind was being as productive as it was now. Watson was currently first and foremost on his mind-Holmes had, at first, been disgusted, both at himself and at the realization that he was truly _in_ love with his closest companion, but as he rolled the idea over and over in his mind, it only made more and more sense. They really were perfectly compatible-except, of course, for the fact that Watson was, in five days' time, to be wed to a perfectly pleasant and charming young woman.

Holmes gently set his violin back into the case that sat upon his dresser. "As happy as Mary may make him, I will always be able to top it," he said aloud. He began pacing recklessly across the length of his apartment-into the living room, all the way over to the fireplace, through the lavatory, and back to his bedroom. "He won't admit it, though. And I can't tell him how I feel; he'd never associate with me again. He can't possibly reciprocate. Even if he let me explain my reasoning, he wouldn't listen. And even if he _did _listen, he's too much of a gentleman to leave his fiancée at the alter. And even if he _did_ leave his fiancée at the alter-" Holmes stopped mid-sentence when he realized that he was babbling. "I need to see him. I just…I…I need to see him."

**\break/**

Watson lurched in surprise when he woke to the sound of tapping on his bedroom window. He threw the covers aside and pulled open his nightstand drawer, where he kept his army revolver. He cocked it, and held it against his hip as he moved cautiously towards the window. Slowly, he pulled the curtain aside and peered outside.

He would recognize the lanky figure anywhere. Holmes was standing outside, looking up at his window hopefully. Watson, though annoyed at being woken up at such a dreadful hour, also felt pleasantly surprised. He pulled on his robe, tying it hastily, and stepped into his slippers before hurrying out of his room. He took the steps two at a time, then nearly pulled the front door off its hinges when he yanked it open. "Holmes!"

The detective waved in acknowledgement and shuffled over to where Watson stood on the porch. "Good morning, Doctor. Lovely weather, isn't it?"

Watson sniffed in disagreement. "It's snowing. It's negative ten degrees out. There's ice all over the ground. I would hardly consider that _lovely_."

"Perhaps. But you have to agree that, aesthetically, it-"

"Holmes."

"Watson."

Watson rolled his eyes and pulled his robe tighter around him. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood."

Watson snorted. "I'm sure. You were nearly fifteen miles away from your home, in the countryside, at five a.m., just, because."

"It's actually closer to four a.m."

"Oh, excuse me, _four_ a.m."

Watson paused to give Holmes a chance to explain himself, but the man didn't seem inclined to say anything further. He could see that Holmes had dressed for the weather-he was wearing his bowler hat, leather gloves, tall leather boots, and his double-breasted wool frock coat. He was about to say something more admonishing to Holmes, but decided against it when he saw his companion's shoulders trembling slightly. Holmes was shivering.

Watson sighed and reached out his hand and placed it on Holmes' shoulder, leading him to the door. "Come on, old boy. Where's your driver? There's no use of him sitting out here in the cold."

"I didn't bring a cab," Holmes admitted as he stepped into Watson's house, kicking snow off his boots. "It's four a.m., Watson. People are sleeping."

"Quite right. How silly of me for not realizing that."

"Indeed."

Once Holmes was inside, Watson closed the door behind them and motioned for Holmes to follow him into the sitting room. "Would you like some tea?"

"Thank you, no."

Holmes sat down on the couch; Watson in the chair next to him. "So, Holmes," the doctor began after a brief-but very uncomfortable-silence. "What are you doing here?"

Holmes shrugged. "Nothing in particular. I was simply thinking this morning about how much I wished to employ your company."

"Uh-huh. And you needed to do this now? Last night wasn't good enough for you?"

"I was indisposed. And for that I apologize. It wasn't until this morning that I realized that I had made a vindictive and selfish decision."

Watson nodded slowly. "I see. And pray tell, what brought you to this conclusion?"

To his surprise, Holmes smirked. "It was…a number of things."

Again, Watson waited for Holmes to elaborate, but he seemed to have no intention of doing so. Watson clasped his hands together and began to twiddle his thumbs. "You're aware that I'm to be wed in five days?"

"I think you mean four, Watson," Holmes teased, "as today is Wednesday, and has been for four hours now. And I assure you, the fact has never left my mind."

"And are you planning to attend?" The question had left Watson's lips before he had a chance to stop it, and he instantly regretted it. Holmes' expression had, for only a split-second, changed to one of complete and utter compunction. Rather than apologize, though, Watson waited for his friend's answer.

After a few moments of silence, Holmes said, softly, in a pained voice, "My dear friend. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

The awkwardness between the two men was so thick that it could have been cut with a knife. Neither appeared to know what to say to the other, but they both knew that they each had a lot to say. Watson yawned before standing up and brushing a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry," he told Holmes, "but I'm afraid if I don't go to bed now, I'll fall asleep on the floor. I'll bring you a blanket and a pillow. If you move the couch closer to the fireplace, it should-" he paused when he saw that Holmes had also stood and was wrapping his scarf around his neck. "Holmes. What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?" the detective said gruffly. "I know you don't have my skills of deduction, Watson, but you should still be able to tell when a person is getting dressed to go out into cold weather."

Watson shook his head and stepped closer to Holmes. "No, no you're not going back out there. If you had a cab it'd be a different story, but you can't walk back. I'm sure you've already caught something from the way here; there's no need to make it worse."

"Your concern is noted and appreciated, but I'm quite sure I'll be all right," Holmes insisted as he put on his hat, then pulled on his gloves. "Sleep with your revolver tonight, Watson."

Watson patted his pocket, where he'd slipped the gun without even realizing it. "I keep it in the drawer beside my bed."

Holmes shook his head. "No. Tonight, sleep with it under your pillow."

He turned and started for the front door, but Watson reached out and grabbed the sleeve of his coat. "Holmes, wait! Why? Why do you want me to sleep with my revolver?"

Watson noticed his friends shoulders sag, almost tiredly. Without turning around, Holmes said, "I have been followed here. While I'm sure that my pursuer has no interest in you, there's no need to take any chances."

And with those final words, he strode out of the house before Watson could say another word.

**Thanks for reading! :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**I like this chapter. Holmes and Watson in the whole thing! It was so easy to write, their chemistry so contagious. The words just oozed out! This chapter is rated M for more drug use, and the story will stay that way for coming events-minor character death, violence, continued drug use, and, of course, sexual content. Slash is coming, people. Only a matter of time! Oh yeah, and Holmes gets in disguise in this one-I can't wait to have him interact with people in the next chapter. Thanks for reading! R&R, please :)**

From the rising sun in the sky, Holmes deduced that it was approximately eight o'clock, on Wednesday morning, four days before his closest-and only-friend was to be married. He hadn't returned to Baker Street after his visit to Watson. Instead, he had been on one of his notoriously long walks around London. He had taken another injection of cocaine as soon as he was a good distance from Cavendish Place, and it had filled him with a false sense of invincibility. Had he been sober, he never would have thought walking around London in the dark, and alone, was a good idea, especially since he was already being followed.

But, in his current mindset, it had been the perfect idea.

Holmes was miserable. He had finally mustered up the courage to visit Watson, to see him and accept that he was, indeed, Mary's now, and the whole event had been a disaster. Watson had been rather petulant-which, Holmes knew, was his fault for waking him up at such an hour-but he had hoped that the excitement of seeing him would surpass the annoyance. He hadn't even known what to say to Watson, so his attempts at confessing his affection for his friend had been terrible at best. He didn't even stay there long-less than ten minutes. It hadn't felt right, it hadn't felt normal. They were uncomfortable around each other. That was something that hadn't happened for…Holmes racked his memory for only a few seconds before realizing that they had never been uncomfortable around each other. Holmes had liked Watson right from the start, and the feeling was immediately reciprocated.

As if Watson wasn't causing him enough distress, Holmes' pursuer had followed him for almost an hour after he left Cavendish Place. Holmes was, of course, relieved, as it meant that his friend was-probably-in no present danger, but he had still been sure to stay on patrolled streets, for his own protection. He couldn't tell much about them, except that they were six-foot and one inch, thus, probably a male, slim, and in shape, as they were able to follow him for such a long time without ever losing stride.

Holmes had arrived at Baker Street. He pulled his key out of pocket and unlocked the door while, with the other, he pulled out his vile of cocaine and squeezed it tightly in his hand. His last injection was already wearing off-the euphoria was gone, replaced once again with the familiar feeling of desolation.

He trudged into the entryway and scraped the snow from his boots as best he could, then started slowly up the stairs. He reached out to turn the doorknob into the living room, but jerked his hand back when the knob starting turning on its own. Before he even had time to raise his fists the door had swung open, and a pale and weary Watson stood in the doorway.

"Holmes!" he said in an exhalation, as he stared at the detective. He gave a long sigh and reached up to rub his eyes, exasperated.

Holmes cocked his head. "Watson," he said quietly, "what are you doing here?"

Watson dropped his hand and scowled at his friend. "What do you _think_ I'm doing here, Holmes? You told me you were being followed, and then you ran off before I even had a chance to respond! So, I had the pleasure of getting dressed, writing a note to Mary, and then walking all the way here, in the snow and ice, only to find that you're not even _home! _I was just on my way out to inform Lestrade, Gregson, Clark, _anybody_ that-"

"Well, there's obviously no need for that now," Holmes interrupted. He slid past Watson and into the living room. "While I appreciate your concern, I assure you that I am quite well."

Watson snorted. He closed the door, then turned and followed Holmes. "That's not what Mrs. Hudson said."

Holmes rolled his eyes. Of course, Watson would have arrived near the time when Nanny was waking up, and, of course, they would gossip about him.

"We weren't _gossiping_ about you," Watson said suddenly, reading Holmes' mind. "She's worried about you, Holmes. And so am I. My dear friend, you look positively horrendous. How long has it been since you've slept or had a decent meal?"

"The walk here can't have been good for you," Holmes muttered, ignoring him. "You shouldn't have come."

"Well, I'm here now. And it's a good thing, too. I don't know how much longer you would last with your current habits, or lack thereof. I asked Mrs. Hudson to make those buckwheat pancakes that you like, so you'll have absolutely no excuse to not eat."

"What if I tell you that I'm not hungry?" Holmes asked sourly. _Stop it_, he told himself. _He's here because he was worried about you. He walked all the way here, with a wounded leg, just to make sure that you were all right! You should've known that he'd do something like this. You shouldn't have walked around for nearly three hours. You don't _like_ making him worry, do you? _

Holmes raised his hand before Watson could answer. "Watson. I'm…Forgive me." He put his hand on his friends shoulder and squeezed it, though the gesture was weak like the rest of him. "I'm going to change into some dry clothes, and then you can force me to eat whatever you'd like, as much as you'd like."

Watson smiled at Holmes' words, and the smile held more than just happiness and satisfaction-it held relief. Watson, Holmes noted, had noticed and hated the awkwardness just like he did, and he had come to make amends.

Holmes walked into his bedroom and pushed the door shut. Onto his bed, he dropped his keys and the small bottle of cocaine. He pulled off his hat, gloves, and then reached into his pockets and pulled out his long case. He eyed it for a few seconds, then his eyes began to dark from the syringe to the bottle on his bed. Should he? Or shouldn't he?

"I really shouldn't," Holmes muttered, but even as he said the words, his fingers found their way to prying open the case and pulling out the long syringe, and then around to uncorking the vial. He filled the syringe, then set both it and the vial on his nightstand before ripping off his clothes. He flicked the needle haphazardly before pressing it into his arm. When he pulled it out, his keen eyes saw the two holes, right next to each other, almost like the bites of a tiny, but savage, animal.

Holmes hastily threw on his dark, mottled robe and tied it loosely at the waist before returning to the living room. Mrs. Hudson had brought breakfast while he was changing; Watson was leaning over the table and scooping food onto a plate.

Holmes walked right up to his friend and clapped him on the back. "So. What are we having?"

"_You_ are having pancakes, an egg, toast, and an apple. And," Watson said as he twisted and reached for the pitcher of water, "you are going to drink _all_ of this." At that, he poured the water into a tall, wide glass and set it next to Holmes' plate.

"Now, Watson, surely Mrs. Hudson told you that I am drinking plenty of fluids."

"No, she said that you're drinking plenty of coffee. You can't drink such large amounts of it on an empty stomach, Holmes, it will make you sick."

Holmes sighed, but pulled his chair out and sat down in front of the large plate of food Watson had set for him. He didn't feel at all like eating. He wanted to box at the Punchbowl. He wanted to play his violin. He wanted to visit Takahiko Ochi's house again. He wanted to read the newspaper for any mention of Moriarty's latest move. He wanted to do _anything_ but eat.

"Holmes!"

Holmes jerked at the sound of his name. He raised his eyes from his plate of food at met Watson's, who was now sitting across from him, staring intently.

"What is it, old boy?"

"I said, stop shaking your leg. You're making the table rattle."

So he was. Holmes tried to make it stop, but it kept jerking up and down from his excess energy. He reached down and pushed down on it, hard, and after a few seconds, the shaking finally slowed and then came to a halt. He brought his hands back to the table and began drumming his fingers on the tablecloth.

"Eat," Watson told him, motioning with his fork to Holmes' plate. "I'm not leaving until you finish everything."

Holmes chuckled. "So, theoretically, if Sunday morning comes, and I haven't eaten everything, you'll still be here instead of at your wedding? Finally, Watson! _Finally _you've told me how to talk you out of marriage!"

"Ha, ha," Watson replied, clearly not amused. "I think, Holmes, that it would-would you _stop_ making that noise?"

Holmes' fingers froze. He reluctantly reached for his fork and began cutting into his pancakes. Yes, they were his favorite, but not today. Not now. He stabbed a small piece onto his fork and brought it up to his mouth. As usual, the taste was superb-not like the orange walnut scones he had tasted a few days prior.

After that small bite, Holmes was ready to get up from the table and call it a meal, but he didn't need his great deducing skills to know that Watson would never allow it.

"How is your fiancée?" he asked after another tentative bite. "In a tizzy about the wedding, I'm sure."

Watson smiled. "Naturally. But, we can excuse her-she _is _a woman after all."

Holmes laughed at this. "Quite right. They do have a tendency to get excited about even the most mundane happenings." Damn. He looked up at Watson immediately. "Of course, I didn't mean to imply that your marriage is mundane, I simply-"

Watson raised his hand. "I know what you meant. Stop talking and eat."

"Have you given any thought to children?"

Watson frowned and set down the piece of toast he had been raising to his mouth. "No, Holmes, we haven't. I'm in no particular hurry."

"But surely she will be. That's what people do when they get married, Watson. They have children-start a family."

"Huh," Watson huffed sarcastically. "I didn't realize you were an expert on married life."

Holmes shrugged carelessly. "I asked some questions and got some answers."

Watson raised his eyebrows. "You don't say." He paused and waited for Holmes to explain, but, of course, his friend didn't say a word. "What kind of questions did you ask?"

Holmes had returned his attention to his food. He lifted the apple to his mouth and took an obnoxiously loud and large bite out of it, then said, through his chewing, "Can't talk. Eating."

"Well, if you won't answer that, then how about this: who was following you, and why?"

Holmes managed to choke down his bite of apple. "I don't know who, and I don't know why," he said as he picked up his glass and took a long drink of the cool water.

"I don't believe you."

Holmes scoffed. "My dear Watson, when have I ever lied to you?"

"Holmes."

"Besides, I don't see why it matters. It isn't as if we'd work together on it. As you said, it is I, not us, who will solve the cases from here on out."

"Yes, yes, I did say that. But, as _you_ said, I love the thrill of the macabre. I still want to hear of your exploits."

"As of yet there have been none."

Watson took a small sip of his coffee. "Then what have you been doing?"

Holmes shrugged carelessly. "Oh, you know. This, that, and the other thing." He looked down at the barely-touched plate of food. "May I have some of your coffee?"

Watson set the mug down on the table and started hitting his egg with his spoon. "No."

"Now, really, Watson. Coffee is all I feel I can stomach at the moment."

"Are you ill?"

_Physically, yes. Mentally, slightly. Emotionally, most definitely, _Holmes thought.

"Never better."

"Then why can you not eat?" Watson leaned over the table, scrutinizing Holmes' face. "You _are _ill! You're sweating!"

"It's warm in here."

"It's freezing in here. You're breathing more quickly than normal."

"The air is dry."

"Holmes, your pupils are enormous! What is going on?"

Holmes shook his head. He wanted to get up from the table and run out of the apartment, but he knew he couldn't-Watson was no fool, he'd figure it out, if he hadn't already. He reached again for his glass of water and took a tiny drink, only enough to moisten his suddenly-parched mouth. "I'm sure it's a combination of my increased alcohol consumption and my decreased amount of sleep." He looked at Watson, long and hard. "Really, Doctor. I feel fine."

Holmes noticed that Watson's eyebrows were furrowed, with worry no doubt, and, perhaps, a bit of frustration. Other than that, he looked perfect. Beautiful. The doctor's face was almost glowing, his eyes were clear and alert, his moustache was impeccably trimmed, his hair was cut neatly in his usual military-style, his clothes were free of dust and wrinkles…perfect.

"Holmes. Your leg is shaking again."

Holmes nodded. "Yes, well, I do believe that is my subconscious telling me that I need to be going."

"Going? Where?"

"I have research to do, and inquiries to make."

"And you think it's a good idea to do that while you're being trailed?"

Holmes snorted, a small smirk on his face. "Please. Since when has that stopped me?"

**/break\**

It had dawned on Holmes as he said his goodbyes to Watson that, perhaps, Takahiko Ochi didn't know who was in the picture that she had drawn-maybe she had been warned to stay away from a man with dark hair, stubble, spectacles and a hat-a description that he could very well match.

For the sake of his case-Watson had nothing to do with it, of course-Holmes had shaved and washed his face. Then, he had applied foundation to it to give himself a healthy complexion, very contrasting to his usual pallor. His black hair was now hidden under a shaggy red wig, and he had on a loose maroon shirt with white, black, and navy stripes. His pants were khaki and slim-fitting, longer than normal, but his boots compensated. Rider-style tall black leather boots, each with a one and a half-inch heel, arched, with spurs pointing out of the back. His coat was a light brown suede jacket with fringes hanging down in the back from one shoulder blade to the other. A black string tie was around his neck. His gloves matched his jacket-light brown cowhide, fringed along the sides. Then, to top it all off, he had a black felt hat on over his red hair, curled slightly at the sides, with a four-inch brim. He had added a false mustache to his ensemble-thin, short, and red to match his hair.

Holmes looked at himself in the mirror, checking for any discrepancies in his disguise. Over his shoulder he had a leather knapsack, with the essentials-magnifying glass, switchblade, empty vials and test tubes, notepad and pen, map of London and the surrounding cities.

He gazed at his reflection-he was almost unrecognizable. He smiled and cleared his throat.

"Howdy, partner."


End file.
